Sidor som bilder


1. Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream; Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell; Mourn—where their God hath dwelt the Godless dwell!

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah’s melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall


and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country—Israel but the grave!


1. On Jordan's banks the Arabs' camels stray, On Sion's hill the False One’s votaries pray, The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steepYet there—even there-Oh God! thy thunders sleep:

2. There--where thy finger scorched the tablet stone! There—where thy shadow to thy people shone! Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: Thyself-none living see and not expire!

3. Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear! Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear: How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod! How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God!

[ocr errors]


1. SINCE our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire! Demand that thy Daughter expire; Since thy triumph was bought by thy vowStrike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o’er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

3. And of this, oh, my Father! be sureThat the blood of thy child is as pure As the blessing I beg ere it flow, And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!

5. When this blood of thy giving hath gush’d, When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,

y memory still be thy pride,

et not I smiled as I died !


1. Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,

And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

3. Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou—who tellst me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.


1. My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string

The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again! If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

’T will flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,

Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nurst,

And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,

And break at once-or yield to song.

« FöregåendeFortsätt »